


Frost and Froth

by UnknownPaws



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: F/M, M/M, have some angst, i have no idea what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnknownPaws/pseuds/UnknownPaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost is his only companion here, his unwilling friend touching him gently with bitter frosted fingers and cold longing, the ice desiring to take him under and bury him in faux bliss and lying peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frost and Froth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigwolfpup/gifts), [TiBun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiBun/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own Tiger and Bunny. I merely write trash out of my love for the baes.

_Ice creeps up the dirtied glass windows like a sickness of the skin, branching up in frozen veins, pushing aside flecks of mud in way of cold, crusting frost scabs and licking up the view of the city from his sight._

Sternbild is lit golden and glorious. It is warm, inviting and cheerful. Snow dancing down over the shining metropolis happy and cliché, like the front of a Christmas card.

_Jack Frost is his only companion here, his unwilling friend touching him gently with bitter frosted fingers and cold longing, the ice desiring to take him under and bury him in faux bliss and lying peace. He feels numb, fingers bitten from playing with the wild Winter's maw, and lips swollen and bruised from cold, worthless kisses of icicles pressed to his flesh, his teeth and tongue and throat to cease words._

Sternbild, softer than her namesake, reaches out, open arms inviting him in for embrace. Children laugh and music sings a happy, festive note. Turkey, roasted over chestnut fires and coal burning ovens, reaches his nose and teases him. His wife shifts into his mind, the repetition of her fingers tapping the broad wood of the kitchen table and the way her bosom hung too low out her blouse, a blouse she wore only for him.

_His bosom, red and raw as fingers and tongues lick and linger over his skin, nipples bruised and betraying his unruly whore behaviour, as his head tilts back in wanton ecstasy from the wet octopus suction of **his** mouth cupping his left breast. It is wrong, so very disgusting to be so armored with seeing his body fall away in strips of flesh until only the core of the flower remains. But the mouth on his breast is warm and he remembers deflowering is why he exists. Why he exists. Why he should exist. Why he will exist until the last of his petals fall and the dead stalk is tossed to rot. _

He remembers friends. He sees them all laughing and huddled around a fire, the embers licking the sky with a wild, orange glow. They are laughing. The fire is spreading over yuletide logs. The eggnog in their hands is thick and generous. Sweet sugar tempts him to step forward, away from the window and out to their side. He hears them calls out, not his name but to another who took his place. Red instead of green. Blood instead of wreaths and trees and brightly wrapped gifts. Whirling gears instead of the cold, little heart quivering in his once purposeful shell.

_His beard is stained with blood. It is his signature, the double cats now coated with fresh red from a kill, but his claws were always sheathed. The flash of silver and whirl of metal blades makes him sick, as the first of two kittens is shaved from his face and slaughtered._

Murder was never his crime. Samantha, she was a poor old woman who met and unfortunate end, but his hands on the fire poker were not the ones to strike her dead. His hands, dusted with the "guilty" fingerprints found on her couch, stained with blood, were only there to look for her missing body and - had he found her - caress and carry her to safety. But framed in the portrait of wrong doing, of a picture he never asked to be painted of himself, he was forced to run. For the old woman, who never did wrong, for his daughter and mother who sat at home sobbing as his name was put on display for their shame to bare, for his partner who saw him with red in his eyes and fell deaf to the silent screams of _him_ , the innocent victim throughout it all.

_Screams of pain rattle in unison, their synchrony a perfect duet practiced for months on end. The routine, his screams, Bunny's fists. The stage, a room once so cozy, where they used to make love instead of sex. The audience, everyone able to see his face upon the big screens of the city, his leading role making him a star. The profit, the only thing that he was worth to anyone now._

He gave himself up for arrest. Halloween night bore the perfect setting of eerie, supernatural autumn moon hanging low. Its orange light flickered hot in the green of Bunny's eyes. Bunny's teeth, bared and sharp, bit down on his neck. He was submissive to Bunny. Bunny was an innocent creature of soft heart and fragility. Fragility meaning he, the Tiger, must bow lest he snap the small being's neck. Hunters, the witches and vampires, crowded around him. Like a wolf, he was trapped. Like a wolf, he howled to the fire burnt moon as the first gunshot severed his hope from his heart, and the tendon in his shoulder.

_He lay cold and unwanted._

He let himself be taken away.

_He whispered pleas for mercy._

They never believed his innocence.

_He never got a hug._

He was locked away in the worst prison.

_He needed a hug._

He suffered in silence.

_He still needs a hug._

He escaped with shrieks.

_But when Bunny finally came to give it to him, he burned at his touch._

He ran and never looked back.

_Teeth drew blood, the taste of fear and panic and pain tainting his tongue._

His most fatal mistake, yet one he is always destined to make.

_When Bunny reeled from the attack, Tiger escaped his chains._

Now he is cold. His stomach is a thin beanstalk and his face hold too many ditches and bruises and blue frozen patches. Hands are thin, long and bony. Eyes are milky, blind by the ice, the sun and everything promising him _happiness_. His legs are weak, and he is caught like a hare in the brambles of poison oak, the thorns drilling mines into his flesh and slowly draining him of his life's precious ore. He knows this, and thus cannot move away from the window where his friends, connected without him, linger and dance and burn in the fires of their own merriment.

_The faint hold of the tree keeps him from moving, and he is grateful for its restraint. The branches tighten iron grips around his wrist when he wiggles and the scream - of wind and his own - scold him for even trying to fall back to a trap. He knows it is not, and yet he remembers. He remembers cold hands around his neck, nails burrowing tunnels in his windpipe bested only by the red rivers spilling waterfalls from the holes left behind in his heart. Fragility is never a word he uses to describe himself. For he knows what that word means, and he fears if he even think upon its definition, he will come to realize what reality is. So he pushes away the idea, hunched over a withered figure in shadows of his own happiness, the once-was person staring back at him through life's self-conscious, anorexic and suicidal mirror._

Sobs fade into the sound of holiday music, festival drums beating in time with the memory of fists colliding with his skull, and his wispy ragged form falls right as green eyes turn his way and spot the mess of bones and rags and the face with two cats lying heaped in the cold snow.

 


End file.
